Early spring is surely Britain's favourite time of year. The birds start singing in earnest, flowers lift their heads above the parapet, and the British woodland comes to life with a flourish – its time to get out there and see nature at first hand. This weekend, for example, I went to help out with a spot of digging at my Dad's allotment, but I got sidetracked by a phenomenal display of frenzied frog fornication in a dank, rubbish-strewn ditch nearby. It was like a frog Glastonbury, with dozens of the horny amphibians grinding away to a soundtrack of low-frequency randy croaking. I was engrossed by this slimy orgy – one of many crosses the peripatetic zoologist must bear – and wasn't really looking where I was going as I tried to get closer for a better view. This was foolish. Before I knew it I had stepped firmly on a plank bearing an evil and proudly erect nail; the nail swiftly and deftly pierced shoe, sock and foot. Now, I don't often use the word 'cunt' in public, but on this occasion it just tumbled out – as a noun, as a verb, and even adjectivally. What's more, this wasn't just any old rusty nail; it was a nail that had rusted beside a ditch, and, for reasons too complex to go into, was covered in horse manure. So as I tore off my sock through howls of agony I found myself staring at my very own rusty, shitty stigmata. If this turns out to be my final blog entry you'll have a reasonable idea why.
Frogs: at fault.
To be fair, I can't really blame the frogs for doing what comes naturally. Its at least partly my own fault for refusing to bow to the march of time and accept that my eyesight is now, frankly, rubbish, and that I should wear my glasses on a permanent basis. Part of the problem is the fact that depending on who you ask, a bespectacled Spim looks either like Eric Morecombe or a giant, frustrated owl. Consequently I tend not to wear glasses in public, though I do occasionally pop them on in meetings at work when I want to appear more intelligent than I actually am. Anyway, as if the rusty nail incident wasn't enough, something else happened this evening that really has pushed me over the edge.
I had arranged to meet my sister to go and see a recording of some tiresome Radio 4 comedy vehicle, so I headed over to Goodge Street Station after work. There she was, reading one of the crappy free papers, so I sauntered over, gave her a little prod, and said "Hello there, Jelly-brain". Unfortunately, it was only at this point that I realised that, erm, it wasn't actually my sister. It was someone else. And from this poor, anonymous woman's point of view, she had just been molested by a limping, squinting stranger who had just come out with one of the weakest chat-up lines ever in a truly pathetic attempt to make conversation.
Red hot shame burnished my cheeks.
My stammered apology was far too little, far too late. The damage was already done. The spectacles may never leave my face again.
Incidentally, I'm unable to have contact lenses because, according to the woman in Specsavers (and I quote verbatim), I have 'funny-shaped eyes'. I've never been so insulted.
Celebrity spots
Hot off the press, perhaps my favourite celeb spot to date. On Sunday I was watching the England v France rugby match (don't ask) with a few chums in the Sports Café, Piccadilly, when one of our number made the finest jizz-based sighting its ever been my privilege to witness - two tables away and from behind, but Nick Hewer from The Apprentice was the bold call. A quick recce confirmed it really was the 'eyes and ears' of Alan Sugar, sat there on his own, watching the game. In retrospect we should have invited him over to join us, really. We could have tapped him for some tips on how to beat the credit crunch, or something. Anyway, I can tell you that he enjoyed a hearty plate of nachos, and that he really is inscrutable; I was returning from a well-earned toilet break when the French scored a try, and I noticed that Hewer's only response to this uncharacteristic display of French resistance was an almost imperceptible lifting of the right eyebrow. A cool cat.
Hewer: Sir Alan's bitch.
A supplemental sighting of celebrity gardener Monty Don outside Hazlitt's Hotel in Frith Street today added garnish to the main course. Don was wearing a vibrant green tweed, as befits a noted man of the soil.
Recommendations
Just when you thought he couldn't get any more absurd, Michael Jackson continues to soar to new heights. The financially embarrassed oddball's latest wheeze is, of course, to announce a 50-date series of shows in London. Seeing as his last live 'performance' was a Jesus Juice-ravaged mumble through a few bars of Earth Song three years ago, I'll be amazed if he manages more than 10, but the bookies don't agree. Paddy Power is offering an optimistic 9/4 that Jackson completes all of them, but a massive 4/1 that seven or more are cancelled, and that simply has to be our nap this week.
Continuing our musical theme, its time for an admittedly early dabble on that bane of good taste, the Eurovision Song Contest. The favourites are Norway (2/1, William Hill), though how is anyone's guess - I doubt A Song for Norway has even been aired yet. Nonetheless, recent results suggest that the balance of power in trashy euro-pop lies well to the east of the Carpathians, so I am recommending a pre-emptive strike on Azerbaijan as overall winners at 20/1 (Boylesports), with Russia at 25/1 (William Hill) as our each-way hedge; no doubt various tin-pot former Soviet satellites will fall into line in a desperate attempt to ringfence their gas supplies once more.
Regular readers will know of my fondness for poppy electronica, and here are two fine exponents of the genre; Fake Fur deliver a jolly techno punch, while Cobra Killer tick all the boxes, since they are also German, minimalist, and Kraftwerk-inspired.
Frogs: at fault.
To be fair, I can't really blame the frogs for doing what comes naturally. Its at least partly my own fault for refusing to bow to the march of time and accept that my eyesight is now, frankly, rubbish, and that I should wear my glasses on a permanent basis. Part of the problem is the fact that depending on who you ask, a bespectacled Spim looks either like Eric Morecombe or a giant, frustrated owl. Consequently I tend not to wear glasses in public, though I do occasionally pop them on in meetings at work when I want to appear more intelligent than I actually am. Anyway, as if the rusty nail incident wasn't enough, something else happened this evening that really has pushed me over the edge.
I had arranged to meet my sister to go and see a recording of some tiresome Radio 4 comedy vehicle, so I headed over to Goodge Street Station after work. There she was, reading one of the crappy free papers, so I sauntered over, gave her a little prod, and said "Hello there, Jelly-brain". Unfortunately, it was only at this point that I realised that, erm, it wasn't actually my sister. It was someone else. And from this poor, anonymous woman's point of view, she had just been molested by a limping, squinting stranger who had just come out with one of the weakest chat-up lines ever in a truly pathetic attempt to make conversation.
Red hot shame burnished my cheeks.
My stammered apology was far too little, far too late. The damage was already done. The spectacles may never leave my face again.
Incidentally, I'm unable to have contact lenses because, according to the woman in Specsavers (and I quote verbatim), I have 'funny-shaped eyes'. I've never been so insulted.
Celebrity spots
Hot off the press, perhaps my favourite celeb spot to date. On Sunday I was watching the England v France rugby match (don't ask) with a few chums in the Sports Café, Piccadilly, when one of our number made the finest jizz-based sighting its ever been my privilege to witness - two tables away and from behind, but Nick Hewer from The Apprentice was the bold call. A quick recce confirmed it really was the 'eyes and ears' of Alan Sugar, sat there on his own, watching the game. In retrospect we should have invited him over to join us, really. We could have tapped him for some tips on how to beat the credit crunch, or something. Anyway, I can tell you that he enjoyed a hearty plate of nachos, and that he really is inscrutable; I was returning from a well-earned toilet break when the French scored a try, and I noticed that Hewer's only response to this uncharacteristic display of French resistance was an almost imperceptible lifting of the right eyebrow. A cool cat.
Hewer: Sir Alan's bitch.
A supplemental sighting of celebrity gardener Monty Don outside Hazlitt's Hotel in Frith Street today added garnish to the main course. Don was wearing a vibrant green tweed, as befits a noted man of the soil.
Recommendations
Just when you thought he couldn't get any more absurd, Michael Jackson continues to soar to new heights. The financially embarrassed oddball's latest wheeze is, of course, to announce a 50-date series of shows in London. Seeing as his last live 'performance' was a Jesus Juice-ravaged mumble through a few bars of Earth Song three years ago, I'll be amazed if he manages more than 10, but the bookies don't agree. Paddy Power is offering an optimistic 9/4 that Jackson completes all of them, but a massive 4/1 that seven or more are cancelled, and that simply has to be our nap this week.
Continuing our musical theme, its time for an admittedly early dabble on that bane of good taste, the Eurovision Song Contest. The favourites are Norway (2/1, William Hill), though how is anyone's guess - I doubt A Song for Norway has even been aired yet. Nonetheless, recent results suggest that the balance of power in trashy euro-pop lies well to the east of the Carpathians, so I am recommending a pre-emptive strike on Azerbaijan as overall winners at 20/1 (Boylesports), with Russia at 25/1 (William Hill) as our each-way hedge; no doubt various tin-pot former Soviet satellites will fall into line in a desperate attempt to ringfence their gas supplies once more.
Regular readers will know of my fondness for poppy electronica, and here are two fine exponents of the genre; Fake Fur deliver a jolly techno punch, while Cobra Killer tick all the boxes, since they are also German, minimalist, and Kraftwerk-inspired.
2 comments:
Excellent. Fantastic. Astounding. I wouldn't be surprised if it was Nick Hewer himself who put that rusty nail in your infamous path to Frog glory. He constantly has this constipated sinister look about him. He is bitter. Bitter about Sir Alan stealing his ideas.
Fantastic post, Spim! We've had some fornicating frog action in our pond too.
Plus, yesterday I saw Dr Alice Roberts in the pub.
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